


Don’t Turn to the Last Page (You’ll Ruin the Story)

by theradiointukyshead



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3306926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theradiointukyshead/pseuds/theradiointukyshead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the advice of his speech therapist, Fitz begins to keep a journal of his daily thoughts. This is a story about those pages and all the moments between the lines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don’t Turn to the Last Page (You’ll Ruin the Story)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written right after 2x08, and is an extension the An Undelivered Note From an Engineer to a Biochemist series on tumblr. You can find the series at http://theradiointukyshead.tumblr.com/tagged/undelivered-note

_The doctor asks me to keep a journal. Helps improve my word-finding skills and all that. Mack says I should follow through with this exercise because he thinks it will help me remember._

_See, the problem is that I remember everything._

_My Mum coming home from work, a giant in her five-foot armor. My first kiss on a summer afternoon of glass, the girl next door’s lips on mine tasting like bubblegum and lip gloss. My designs sketched on high school cafeteria napkins sprawling across a table occupied by one._

_Life is a black-and-white montage with background instrumental music, and I remember everything._

_And then there’s you. All those days in living colors. All those passing moments with your voice as the only soundtrack that I need. You burn memories into my brain and you make me crave for life in all its un-retouched beauty._

_And that’s the pain of not forgetting, I suppose; I never know where to start._

———————————————-

When he left Glasgow for Sci-Tech, it was with a buzzing ambition too large for a teenage boy to carry. But as the plane taxied to an unfamiliar terminal in Logan Airport, reality began to settle in, and suddenly he was hit with a forlorn sense of loss, a vague yet persistent longing for the skyline that he could rightfully claim as “home.”

The flight from Boston to DC was only an hour and a half long, but – jetlagged, sleepy, and not in the mood for idle chitchat – he reached for the blind, about to draw in shut.  It was then that a hand stopped him.

“No, please leave it open if you don’t mind. I wanna enjoy the view.” The voice was female. English. Young.

He turned to the passenger next to him. She was his age, and he remembered she had the kind of smile that was both delicate and fervent. It made him feel less lonely in this strange new world. “Of course,” he said after a pause.

Boston shrank before them, towers of steel and concrete receding until they were but dots along the tangled streets, but even then the city circuits had to give way to feathered clouds.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she exhaled, a bit dreamy.

“Sure,” he shrugged. “But it’s not home.”

“You’re a long way from home,” she remarked. It wasn’t exactly a question.

“So are you.”

“Yeah.”

He gave her a sideway glance and caught excitement bubbling underneath her cordial expression. Amused, he quirked an eyebrow, “may I ask why?”

Her returning smile was cryptic, “Sheffield was a fish bowl. I want the ocean.”

He nodded simply. She fell asleep after a while, her head lolling to the side and coming to rest on his shoulder, but he didn’t have the heart to wake her up. Awkwardly, he grabbed something from the seat pocket and was content just to pass the time reading overdramatized travel stories in airline magazines.

The plane cruised through a patch of cloudless sky, and the fiery light of a sunset poured through their open window. The girl stirred in her sleep. He caught her reflection on the glass, against a sky at dusk, and for a second she seemed to burn with the softness of embers.

They met a few days later during orientation at Sci-Tech, and he held a hand over his heart because when embers turned to sparks, they never really stopped burning.

—————————————————-

“Let’s go into the field,” she said unexpectedly, when they were packing up after a late night spent at Sci-Ops. “I’m sure agent Melinda May from Admin has contacted you. She wants to offer both of us a field position.”

He rubbed his bleary eyes as he shoved binders and paper scraps into his messenger bag. They were twenty-five, too young to settle for what they were given instead of what they could take, yet too old to believe feet were indefatigable and the world was their playground. “I’m starving. Let’s grab something to eat,” he slung the bag over his shoulder and marched to the door, avoiding her proposition.

They sat in a McDonald’s parking lot somewhere, and in between mouthfuls of burger, he asked, “why should we leave the lab for a chance to get killed?”

She placed her shake in the cup holder and faced him. “It’s the most perfect opportunity for us to see the world. Think about it, Fitz. Stretch the map out and push a pin in, traveling is now as easy as that,” she almost squealed.

It caught him off guard, the enthusiasm, because in front of him he saw them – eighteen and wide-eyed with hope – staring out the window of a plane down to an unknown future.

“Besides,” she continued, “wouldn’t you want to be a part of agent Coulson’s team?”

Ah, of course. Phil Coulson, the unsung hero in the Battle of New York, the leader everyone would follow. But Fitz trudged through Sci-Tech and put up with Sci-Ops because he followed her. He had been lost and alone and her voice had been the only sound guiding him through the dark. Now, it was midnight and they were together eating fast food, the starlight kissing her like it was the fine coating to her porcelain skin, her yearning to live palpitating in his own chest. She was as constant as a Northern Star. With her, he had charted this distant shore and he would chart the world.

“I’ll consider it,” he spoke at last, shrugging a little just to let her know he wouldn’t relent so easily, but he had already known the answer.

She beamed and touched the back of his hand with fingers still icy from holding the milkshake, “don’t worry. We’ll still be in a lab, only now it’s on a plane.  The plane may land one day and fly the next, but there’s one thing that will never leave.”

“And what is that?”

“Me,” she answered solemnly.

“Is that a promise, Jemma?”

“It’s a vow.”

———————————————

_You should see the look in the doctor’s eyes. She’s been treating me like I’m a baggage with “fragile” stickers plastered all over me, but today it’s worse. She asks me if I’m okay and she says I should write about my feelings. She has a hand on my shoulder and I brush it off as fast as I can._

_I should’ve let it rest there. It’s not like yours will return to take its place._

_Here’s how it goes: you wrote a ~~promise~~  vow on a piece of paper and you pinned it on my heart. When you left, you ripped it away and crumpled it up, and the pin fell, and there’s a gaping hole that won’t stop bleeding. It’s funny how I once again can’t breathe. I inhale and my lungs are filled with my own blood._

_You told me you were going to see you Mum and your Dad.  I know you lied. No matter how much you think you’ve improved, you’re still a terrible liar. You can’t lie to anyone, least of all to me. But I let you go because when I was a kid, I tried to fit a wooden cube into a circle and I got splinters. That’s how I learn I can’t force feelings because I’ll end up with splinters in my heart. And the poor thing is already in bad shape to begin with. So I let you go._

_But you should know I am not a saint. I rage against this ugly reality we’ve been handed, against the universe for taking away a part of my brain. I’m bitter and wistful and angry at the world. At myself. At you. You left me because you dragged a body out of the ocean but you think it wasn’t your best friend’s. But it’s me. Me on that DC-bound airplane. Me in the library with you at four in the morning. Me by your side in that pod. Me with shaky hands and words I can’t form. Why can’t you just see?_

_I resent you. I hate you. And despite all that, I still can’t unlove you. Resentment and hatred are impassioned. Unlove is empty. Unlove is unremembering, undoing the past.  I can’t do that. I said I remember everything. And as long as I remember, I love._

———————————————

The pitter-patter of rain grew more insistent, droplets racing slantingly down the window, superimposed against a murky sky. He dropped another cube of sugar into his tea and stirred as he listened to the footfall of someone approaching.

“Don’t you hate late autumn?” he asked. The chair next to him creaked when Skye pulled it out to sit down. “It rains all the time, and the – uhm – the sun sets way too early.”

“I know how you feel,” she agreed. “I could do with a little more sunlight. Everything’s already dark as it is.”

He hummed in response and gestured to a cup of tea still steaming on the other side of the table, “you can have that if you want. It’s not – I mean – I – uhm – I made an extra cup.”

She sipped her tea with appreciative noises, but these past few months he had learned to rely less on verbal communication, and he could discern distaste when he saw it. He didn’t blame Skye though; Simmons always liked her tea too sweet, it was a chemical mystery how that much sugar could dissolve in that little liquid.

Eyeing the Grumpy Cat on her mug with an amused expression, Skye commented, “Hunter brought this from home. Said it was a gift from his ex-wife.”

“Was it? I wasn’t there when you guys – you guys –”

“Talked about it?” she offered, and he bit his lips, giving her an infinitesimal nod. “Yeah, I noticed. I barely see you nowadays.”

It was a casual remark, but Fitz felt his chest tighten like she had punched him. Defensive, his head snapped up, “that’s because I was in the lab working on the – er – thing for our Bus.”

“Oh yeah, how’s the cloaking?” Skye queried, holding the cup in her hands for warmth. Outside, more gray clouds rolled in from a distance. The rain wasn’t going to end any time soon.

He peered over his shoulder, at a girl in a blue sweater and neatly tied-back hair. She gave him an A-ok sign, and he turned to Skye, “it’s okay.”

“And how are you?” This time, Skye put her cup down and shifted in her chair, so that her entire body was angled towards him. Her voice was raw when she spoke.

“I’m okay,” his answer was dismissive. He loved the team, and he was grateful for everyone’s concern, but Simmons had been gone for weeks and they really needed to stop tiptoeing around him. He was not eggshell. He was a bone that could be cracked but could be healed for the better.

To his surprise, however, Skye was having none of it. “Bullshit,” she snapped. “You are not okay and I am not letting you get away with that answer, not again. I know your doctor’s been asking you to do that stupid journal thing, and your bromance with Mack has been a big help, but you’re not gonna get better if you only pour your heart out to an imaginary Simmons – yes, I know about your hallucination. Nobody caresses their shoulders when they talk – so that’s why I’m here. Vent to me, Fitz. Let me help you.”

He sat back in stunned silence, but as it rained silver like the tears he could never shed and her earnest eyes turned the color of the earth after rain, he didn’t even notice when he just started talking. He told her about the years he had spent building his self-worth back from the remnants his bullies had left on the playground. And, to the steady beat of water against glass, he lamented the collapse of everything he had worked up to. His thoughts were scattered, his speech was disrupted, but the gist was clear: he was a burden. He was a deadweight. He was a man trapped within the shadow of his former brilliance, and no one, not even himself, could see past the light and into the dark.

“Fitz, if you construct your self-image based on your strategic value, I’m gonna punch you in the face. And May trained me well so believe me when I say it’s gonna  _hurt_.”

He gaped at her, but she just continued, this time in a gentler tone, “do you honestly believe you are no longer a part of the team just because you’re no longer the genius that you were?

“You are more than your inventions, you know. You hate fieldwork but you almost jumped out of a plane for your best friend. You hate killing but you shot a man for May. You believe, you hope, and you  _care_.  And damn it Fitz I will grab you by the shoulders and shake and yell at you every day, that you are bent and fractured but you are whole, that you came out of the ocean covered in scars but you came out victorious, until you can see how much you are still loved by everyone.”

By the time she was finished, her eyes were glazed over, and he couldn’t think of anything to say, so he pulled her into a hug. “I’m trying, Skye,” he murmured against her hair, his voice brittle and tremulous. “I’m trying so hard. For the team. For me. For  _her_.”  

“Fitz, you don’t owe it to anybody except yourself to get better,” she squeezed his arm as she pulled away. “And you certainly don’t need anybody as a crutch. I believe your feet can stand just fine on their own. But –” she added with a grin “– if you ever need to hack into someone’s Netflix account to marathon some Doctor Who, you know where to find me.”

He nodded to her as she bade goodbye. Outside, the gentle melody of rain had reached its cadence. He stood up and pressed his forehead against the cool windowpane, listening to the ebbing, rhythmic thud of water hitting the ground. Then he let out a shaky breath and downed the rest of his tea.

To his left, the girl with a pony tail and blue sweater cracked a smile.

He was going to be just fine.

——————————————-

_Hunter gives me a beer today, and for some reason the words just come pouring out. They look at me like I’m insane, but then again, maybe to them I always have been. I don’t bother with an explanation; I just give a toast to moving on._

_And moving on is much like living next to a construction site, I suppose. I can’t just uproot my life and move to a different house. Instead, I learn to live with the drilling and the hammering, until they no longer consume my sanity. They fade into background noises, and I carry on living. Now, I hold my hands over the ears of my heart, I let your voice be the ambient sound to the black-and-white montage of my life, and I hope._

_I am a hopeful person, you already know that. I hope life treats Hunter and Mack well. I hope Trip discovers the sunlight as warm as his own. I hope Ward gets the ending he deserves. I hope Skye finds the family that loves her. I hope Coulson and May will always have each other through all the chaos._

_And I hope for you._

_Somewhere out there is the ocean you’ve always dreamed of. I hope you’ll find it and just swim, because I am no longer the chains around your legs. You’ll go far, I know you will. You are brilliant and beautiful and god, you deserve so much more than what I can give you. Shine like the supernova that you are, and I’ll be content just to watch you from afar because an astronomer can’t have all the universe. And maybe, in a distant future when you and I have learned to live again, I’ll reach for you_.

———————————————

It happened very naturally.

He stood in the med bay, his tactical gear still flecked with sprays of blood, the faint stench of salt and copper adrift in the air like a ghost. The ancient fluorescent bulb crackled as it engulfed him in bleached white light, casting a grotesque shadow of him, hunching, over Trip’s still body.

The door slid open, and tentative footsteps drew closer.

“He was trying to protect me,” he croaked to whomever it was, pinching the bridge of his nose to keep the tears at bay.

“He is gonna be fine. Stop blaming yourself,” came a familiar voice. It sounded like warm tea with one sugar cube too many.

He breathed in and out, a bit surprised; usually his hallucination wasn’t this vivid. Instinctively, his hand came to rest on one shoulder, expecting to curl around rough fabric. But this time warm and delicate fingers trembled underneath his own.

“Oh, does this mean I’m allowed to touch you now?”

He turned. Between the spiked ends of her shorter hair that pricked him, and the hope that burned behind those cautious and hardened eyes, he didn’t know which one made his heart writhe. Caught off guard, he drew his hand back and shoved it into his pocket. It was the left hand, the damaged one, and now it shook for an entirely different reason.

She pouted a little, “I take that as a no.”

“God, no – er, I mean – I’m not a museum exhibit. Of course you can touch me.”

“Oh, good,” she said, but her hands remained guarded by her side.

There was a silence that sliced the air, and he tore his gaze away from her to look at Trip, at the steady rise and fall of his chest. “Trip’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve this,” he mumbled.

“No, he doesn’t,” she bit her lips. “Still, you have to remember that it’s not your fault. It’s the risk you have to take when you go into the field. You get hunted, you get shot, you –”

“– get dropped into the ocean.”

She sighed, “that, too.”

“But you get up, even with a bullet in your eye, to –” he paused for a moment to collect his thoughts “– soldier on through the gunfire.”

“Even when you have to soldier on alone,” added she, and there was something in the timbre of her voice that forced him to look at her. “ _Especially_  when you have to soldier on alone.”

“Because that is what’s best for you,” his reply came in a whisper. The words felt like bullet fragments pulled out of a wound, dripping with his own blood, but they were out, and that was all that counted.

She touched his shoulder once again, and this time he let her. “Coulson told me about the transceiver,” she said, “about the overkill device, about the Bus.”

“Yeah,” he allowed himself a small yet prideful smile. “Welcome back, me.”

“You were never gone.”

There was in her voice the embers that burned, that had always been burning since that late afternoon with an airplane leaving Boston, and he knew she truly, honestly meant everything she said. He turned to her, finally,  _finally_  able to look into her eyes, “I understand why you left. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t mean I completely agree with you. But I understand now.”

“Will you forgive me?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.”

_I forgive you. Will you forgive me too?_   _Will you suffer with me the pain of not forgetting, of accepting who we are even when sometimes we still miss who we were?_  he wanted to add, but he chose to swallow the words. They could wait. Instead, he grasped her wrist and hesitantly tugged her towards the door.

“Where are we going?”

“Let’s give Trip some rest,” he answered. “Come on, I’ll make you a cup of tea and you can make me the – uhm –”

“– prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella sandwich, with a hint of aioli?” she finished for him.

He nodded, and she smiled.

Somewhere out there, an astronomer reached for the universe.


End file.
